I’m the fit but not exactly trim lady who lives near you.

I have the three perfectly behaved children that sometimes play with your kids. The ones that when they come to play your kids stop screaming and fighting and you can actually sit for a minute.

I’m the lady at the office that makes a homemade cake for every person’s birthday.

But you don’t hate me because…

My lawn is not perfect.

My dog barks unnecessarily.

I don’t wear make-up most of the time and I dress conservatively, so your husband doesn’t notice me.

In fact you kinda like me because ..

I volunteer for the most awful task of the event you’re planning. Smiling and laughing the whole time.

I don’t gossip or curse but I’ll listen attentively and compassionately to anything you need to get off your chest.

I never say “no” if you ask for my help

But I need to let you know that…

I’m sick.

Not in that wear pink and walk three days in my shoes kinda sick – the other kind the “hush-hush sweet Charlotte” kind of “sick”

I’m co-dependent and depressed and I need to get better. I need to tell you this because it’s contagious. I’m afraid my 11 year old daughter has it and my husband is suffering from lack of sleep and heart palpitations since I confessed that i want to die.

I’m so tired of being sad. So tired of needing to be needed. I care what you think of me and I don’t even know you. I don’t care if you’re my waitress or the person who uses the stall in the public bathroom after me. YOU HAVE TO LIKE ME! TRUST ME! TELL ME I’M WONDERFUL!

But I won’t believe you…
Because you don’t know me.

And, all that pettiness and the cattiness? It reminds me of high school. Yep. Those torturous locker filled halls, musty classrooms and the quest for popularity. Popularity that never came and was never achievable for some. Re-enforcement that that some of us will always and forever be the fats kids in the corner wearing dorky glasses, blending in with the walls. And, then, for some of us, there is that one time. The BIG name blogger tweets you back or sends you and email in response to your comment. And, you get all giddy and light headed. But, when the dust settles there you are again, back in your dark corner with nothing. In that brief moment you mistaken mutual admiration for nothing more than what was originally meant as politeness. And the feeling you are left with? You know, the one that sits in your stomach like a rock? Well, it mirrors that same one you had 15 years ago when the boy you liked asked you to a dance, only to find out it was really nothing more than a practical joke.

It has been over a year or more since I took main blog public. I started promoting it on Twitter and occasionally on Facebook. I really wasn’t sure where I wanted things to go. Heck, I am still unsure of the direction I want my blogs to take. I have met some fantastic people on-line. I have built an awesome support network of mom’s on twitter. I am looking forward to the day when I might have an opportunity to meet some of them in person. Community, love and support – that is what I really saw blogging to be about when I went public. Sadly, it didn’t take me long to realize that a lot of lip service is paid to spreading the love. There is a lot of talk about building community and support for each other. I get a lot of polite virtual smiles and knowing nods. And, of course, I have an internet history crammed full of un-returned emails, ignored twitter messages and craptastic stats.

So where does that leave me?

Well, some days it leaves me feeling dirty and ashamed to call myself a blogger. Then again, some days the blogging community leaves my spirit refreshed and inspired. And, so, I stop. I step back. I refocus myself. I remind myself WHY I blog. I don’t blog for awards, accolades and trips. I don’t blog for money or product. I blog for ME. And, when I need a gentle reminder of this, I dig through my archives, until I find the comfort I am seeking amongst the many pictures and odd phrases of my daughter. I let my old posts serve as a gentle reminder of who I am. And, there, deep in my internet pages, though all the static I start to hear MY little voice again. A little voice that brings happiness to me and happiness to my readers. And so, I move forward. I have found my focus. And, at the end of the day all that matters is that IF you happen across my blog is you hear my voice. Because, if you hear my voice, in my posts, then you hear me for who I am. And, that, that is all that matters. Its about ME being ME. It’s about blogging and living with a clean conscious so to speak.

So, ask yourself – What does your voice, whether BIG or small, in blog land say about you?

There. On Twitter. An account created out of chicken shit, don’t have the balls or fucking bravery, to attack someone to their face. NO. Let’s be a big girl and sit behind a keyboard and computer screen to berate, belittle, spew ugliness, hate, lies. What’s worse is the account wasn’t created to bash me. But the poor wretched cretin who created the account felt compelled enough to spend ALL DAY Thanksgiving Day behind a computer spewing ugliness and hate towards me.

I had no clue. In fact I had no idea that my sister went into the MomDot forum in October and decided to air her “side” of her pregnant at 16 story. Really? So you told them it was “planned” and la dee dah? Oh no….you told them how upset I was that I was getting married in 6 short months when I found you were pregnant. So I reacted like any oldest sister would who felt like she was just stabbed. How does my life affect yours? Oh it doesn’t, RIGHT! My marriage had no bearing on YOUR life, but your pregnancy affected my life, my wedding.

In life we make decisions. Decisions, whether right or wrong in the eyes of a general society, are made based on what we felt was right at that time. Right for that person or persons. I made a decision in my life that on rare occasions haunts me, I play that bullshit “What if?” Knowing damn well….I know what WOULD HAVE happened. A life of poverty, struggle, a life completely different than mine own at this juncture.

What completely boggles my mind is how some piece of shit, chicken bitch, got a hard on for me. Supposedly my sister claims she IS NOT this Twitter account. Her history with me suggests that if her lips are moving…I cannot believe a word. But the good person that I am wants to give her the benefit of the doubt. I want to believe that she would never do any DIRECT attack, no, just sneaky and concocting like in a forum of how many women? Who now know my personal life. My personal life that was known to less than a handful of people. Aired in a trashy forum. Clearly know I understand why it’s the place where “blogging moms go” to get their fucking beef on. To trash people. Drama. No wonder they don’t want more drama…they create their own. Might as well make a fucking mini-series out of the garbage that goes on in there. Ah, but I digress.

So I am perplexed as to what STRANGER would attack me on the most thankful day of the year. What person, no no, what demonic wretch who is so clearly riddled with disdain, personal self loathing, and hatred would feel a need to attack me OUT OF NOWHERE. I can understand if my sister had been the ghostwriter of said Twitter account but “supposedly” she is not. Here is where I am at. What dipshit runs a forum and when you ASK said forum administrator to please find out who did this regardless of any disagreements etc in the past, ignores your request? Oh right. EWE know who. Though I rather refer to her as cattle, their flatulence (which happens when they open their mouths) clearly pollutes the air, pea brained, oh and a real shock value when someone slaughters them. Boo hoo. Poor dumb animal. Though I hear she plays the part of grim reaper well. Again…I digress.

Now I present a few pleas to those of you who read this:

1. I ask that you please, please BLOCK and report this account for Spam. Enough spam requests and the account is removed by Twitter. Even though I have made attempts to have the account removed…it still sits there tweeting randomly. With my name in the bi-line.

2. If anyone can give up information to me who is the Ghost Writer, I will transfer $50 to your PayPal account.

3. If you can provide me with the conversation of this Ghost Writer GLOATING about their hatefulness, I will transfer$100 into your PayPal account.

My request is also extended to ANYONE who feels that this kind of behavior should stop! The act of writing an authored blog post, directing your anger, frustration, at a named person is one thing, the act of writing an anonymous post about unnamed people is another thing. But you open a whole new can of LOW to attack a named person anonymously. Come out to play chicken. For any of you who have created an anonymous account to boldly attack an individual, think twice about doing so, because this is what can happen. Not only does the person you are attacking get hurt, but so does the family. I am not the only one who was hurt by this. My children. My husband. My mother. My father. My friends. All saw this account. Some feel uncontrollable anger, some feel my pain, some have shed tears with me. I ask that if you have made a decision in your life that is a politically charged decision, but is 100% LEGAL and was the right decision at the time, please, help a fellow woman out and get this account off twitter, help other women who are experiencing the same hateful acts. What kind of community helps to promote these actions?
The Twitter account in question in @notordinarylife

I used to think you fell into definition #1. But lately, I’m feeling it’s more like #3. Maybe. If I’m being on the generous side. I mean, really? You call yourself a friend? When was the last time you called me? When was the last time you invited me anywhere? When was the last time you just sent a freakin’ email or FB post to see how I’m doing? You were never really good at it in the first place, but ever since I had my baby it’s like you’ve dropped off the face of the earth. Or maybe I have. I don’t know.

I know you’re on FB. You post things. Sometimes I “like” them. Sometimes I comment. I made sure to wish you a happy birthday. Do you ever respond? No. But you respond to 95% of other people’s posts. Have you changed your mind about me? Do you hate me now? Have I done something wrong? I wish you would just tell me. Because I don’t believe I did, unless you consider having a baby “wrong”. And the other “friends” in the group? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. We’re in our freakin’ 30s. Should there really still be shit talking? I mean, if you don’t fucking like me, DON’T PRETEND you do. I don’t give a rat’s ass! Seriously!

But those are the other girls. YOU. You I’ve been trying to maintain a friendship with. But I HATE one sided relationships. If I wanted to feel unacknowledged and under appreciated, I’d clean the house!! But when I send you cards in the mail, send you emails, post messages for you — I expect a damn response. I don’t give a fuck what your excuses are. Because I don’t necessarily believe them. I believe you got caught being a jerk, and so you had to do something to make up for it quick. And yet I’m STILL waiting for this note you claimed you were going to send. Whatever. I’m over it. I’m over this circle. I’m over these “friends”. I’m over this city.

You seem to continue to alienate people somehow. Ever think it might be you? If you’re happy not having family or long term friends, then great. You’re on the right track.

But you’re missing out on me. I’m a friggin’ awesome friend. I rock in the friendship arena. I am LOYAL and HONEST. I am HELPFUL and CARING. I am SUPPORTIVE and SYMPATHETIC. I am FUN and EASYGOING. But you probably forgot all that. You seem to have forgotten me.

Good luck with your “friends” over there. I’m sure they’ll treat you as well as you’ve been treating me lately.

Pregnant. The first child and grandchild was on the way.

My mom was thrilled. My dad proceeded to have some sort of mid-life crisis. He ranted and raved and told me that I just aged him into a grandfather too quickly and he wasn’t ready for that. I was flabbergasted and horrified at how selfish my father was proving himself to be.

But wait. It got worse. Selfish doesn’t even begin to explain it.

He started having an affair with a woman…one of the secretaries…from his office who looks like Bozo the Clown. Red hair and a mask of make up. My mom found out because she walked into the room(in THEIR house) he was in where he was chatting with her on the phone and calling her Tinkerbell. The asshole.

Then, her friends started telling her that they had seen him out with another woman at various restaurants in the area, holding hands over the table and speaking intimately. She had bright red clown hair and a mask to go with it.

It was confirmed. My dad was a fuckwad asshole. And that woman was a slit.

This whore was married too. With two adult girl children. What a role model. She started tormenting my mom. Phone calls, driving through my parents huge circle driveway. Harassing her like the pathetic other woman that she was.

After about a year or so, it stopped. The stalking and harassing ended. And my dad went into counseling to find out why he chose to have this little thing with another woman.

He promised my mom and us kids that this was over and it would never happen again.

But it seems that affair…an emotional one, as my dad claims. It was the energizer bunny. Because today, almost 15 years later, our family found out that he lied and is still involved with her. I’m almost betting that, with all the years that have passed, this isn’t just emotional anymore. That’s WAY too gross a thought so let’s not go there.

I’m furious.

My mother just came home from the hospital. She had a massive heart attack with only 10% ejection fraction left on her heart. AND…a stroke. Which has made writing and memory difficult for her.

She has been through hell, my poor mommy. And now this?

My father hasn’t been very nice to my mother in years. He is a bitter, miserable man who has lumped my mom and her illness into one group and called it his scapegoat. She has become the very reason his life isn’t the way he wants it to be. Well, join the club buddy. Many of us are living a life that we hadn’t planned on. Get over yourself. This is MY mommy!

Every single time she has gone into the hospital, over the last decade or so, he is a nasty assmunch. He drips in evil sarcasm when he talks to her and the doctors. He has been unpleasant to be around. He…is a fuck. Yes, this is my dad.

I’ve had a strong feeling. For ages. That he hadn’t ended it with the red headed floozy. Seems I was right.

My mom is a wreck. And she needed this stress because she had nothing else to worry about while being housebound and trying to recover from all the trauma she has had.

I called my dad. I told him that if he didn’t end it with Randy. Yes, her name is Randy. That he would be dead to me. And he yelled at me and told me to not say things I would regret. Then, he screeched at me to mind my own fucking business. Seriously.

I’m not sure who hung up on whom.

I’m so fricking angry that I can’t even think.

I’ve had no respect for my dad for ages. I’ve thought him to be a weak and selfish man. He proved me right, yet again.

I wish my mom was healthy because then she could leave him. But for now, she is stuck with this piece of garbage that has done nothing but emotionally hurt her for years.

And my sister and I are stuck with a father who obviously doesn’t think much of his family because he keeps on choosing this disgusting, vile woman over his family.

It sucks. The truth? Yeah, it is a horrible life buzz kill when you find out that your parent or parents aren’t the people you had thought them to be when you were young.

The only thing I regret from my phone call to him is that I told him “I quit!”. Yeah, I work for my dad.

This whole situation sucks. On so many levels.

Like, I want to rip apart those responsible for causing my husband and me unnecessary and additional stress.

Seriously. DIE DIE DIE.

Why are you so pissed off, Lauren? You ask.

I’ll tell you.

We were scheduled to close on the house on the 25th. For those of you without a calendar handy that’s a Wednesday which is the day before Thanksgiving. Our closing was originally on the 30th but about a month ago they pushed it up since things were going well. We were stoked that we were getting to move into the house about a week ahead of schedule and were relieved because at the time November 30th was the final day to qualify for the federal housing tax credit. We could breathe. Yes, there was now some wiggle room but we weren’t interested in wiggling.

ANYWAY, Jacob got a call last night from our loan officer informing us that the loan underwriters were up to five days behind. WHAT? ARE? YOU? KIDDING? ME? Basically they knew how behind they were and failed to let us know as soon as they found out.

What does this mean? We won’t be closing on the 25th. I’m sure you’re thinking SO FUCKING WHAT?

We have booked movers. Scheduled utilities. Scheduled deliveries (Hello! New refrigerator!). Our evacuation notice was turned into our apartment office for the end of the month. Jacob’s parents are coming into town on the 28th and will be staying with us for a week. Where are they going to sleep? Amidst a sea of boxes? Climbing over stacks of books to get to the bathroom?

This is ridiculous. Absurd. It’s BULLSHIT.

It is apparently not the fault of the loan officers but of the lender which in our case happens to be the federal government. We qualified for a USDA loan because our home is located in an area that is still pretty rural compared to your average north Texas bedroom community. It’s a great loan, no down payment, etc. At least, we thought it was a good deal.

Apparently since this is a very popular loan and November 30th was originally the last day of the tax credit program the lender got behind.

THAT IS NOT MY PROBLEM, FED.

Our loan officer should be fighting for us but he is being kind of a weiner. His and Jacob’s email correspondence is a cowardly joke. Jacob is being firm but respectful (name calling in an email is not how we roll) and this dude is giving excuses and eventually passed the buck to his management.

At this point we have no idea what day we’ll be closing. Our loan officer’s last email to Jacob said something like, We’ll see what the USDA decides on Monday. Have a good weekend. Really? Now we have to go all weekend without an answer. We can’t reschedule our move. We can’t redo all of the arrangements that we’ve ALREADY FUCKING MADE.

I am livid. This will no doubt ruin our Thanksgiving holiday. Things are in boxes. Things that we will no doubt need soon.

Whatever. This is unacceptable.

But when the torment doesn’t have a name. When there is no reason. When you are depressed with no reason to be depressed and so depressed that just getting through the day is a struggle without a reason for the struggle, the weight on your shoulders just becomes heavier and heavier. Yet, you can’t identify the weight or why it’s there.

Life becomes so hard that you don’t want to face it. Thoughts of suicide force themselves into your mind, no matter how hard to push them away. They are persistent and nagging. You fight them off and push them away, but the return time and time again. You hope that the more you fight them the stronger you will become and you don’t dare speak them aloud. To anyone.

Nothing is wrong. There is no reason for any of this. There is no reason for such struggle and despair. Yet, it is there. Constantly. It has to be genetic. There must be something wrong in my brain. A chemical imbalance as hereditary as a cancer?

I don’t want to see a doctor. I have nothing to say to one. I don’t want to tell my spouse and alarm them. I don’t want the label on paperwork and insurance forms and medical records to follow me from here to eternity. I just want to be a better parent to my children, a better spouse and a better friend. I want enjoy my life again, like I should. I want to be an active member of my family, not just struggle and concentrate just to make it through each day. I don’t want to be crazy just because of genetics. It’s not fair, to me or to them.

I must re-double my efforts and fight the crazy. I must make a conscious choice to engage in life again. I must make a concerted effort to be the best parent and spouse I can be. I will fight the crazy and I will win.

Her: J is a trooper. How well do u thnk your kids wld do if they had a step mom they knew hated them. never said a nice thing 2 them or about them. Not even a smile 4 him frm u. U make him sad and makes me sick 2 my stomach whn I hear how u treat him. I know u don’t like me or j. he cares cuz he wants ur approval so bad. i think ur a scary and nasty person and i know someday he will not care how u feel about him. shame on u 4 being such a bitch 2 my son.

Me: I guess we both suck as parents then. You are the epitome of the pot calling the kettle black. And I may not always be nice to him but I am encouraging and complimentary. I always tell him how smart he is and how cute and sweet he is. I always tell him that he is the smartest kid in the house which is why daddy and i don’t understand or accept his bad grades. he and i are a vicious cycle. we both react to each other negatively. I owe you no explanation. You. No matter how you try to sugarcoat yourself, you left your kids so you could live your life how you wanted. Without a fight. It was like you were simply signing a lease. So please. Save your finger pointing for a time when it really counts.

Her: Didn’t say u suck as a parent. I told u how J feels. I’ve know 4 years how U feel about me as a parent, or lack of. I’m pretty sure the entire metro Detroit knows. Not sure about sugar coating- that’s how I view you. And I have never claimed to be a good parent-on the contrarey(sp?) thnks for letting me hear the nice thngs u say 2 him. Makes a diff.

Me: You people frustrate me so badly that I want to crawl into a fucking hole.

Her: I fucked up by texting negative feelings to u. I’m sorry–u don’t deserve that. WTF is wrong with me? Pls. know I’m an asshole that can’t handle my shit…sooo sorry abt my anger. Sincerely, I like u and don’t like me so much.
Cash cab is a good mental distraction. 9-11am. U can tell me to go fuck myself for wanting to text u after I have acted like a cunt to u and if I could I would…as my husband and I don’t.

Me: don’t understand? what’s Cash Cab?

Her: I was trying to connect with u about the frustration and thought ‘she (u) rightfully should tell me to go fuck myself 4 trying 2 share my feelings…considering…

Me: I wouldn’t tell you to do that. I’m sorry you’re frustrated too. It sucks.

And that’s it. So far, I’m sure. I forwarded these texts to my husband. She is nuts. My stepson and I don’t get along. At all. He is 12 and causes a ton of problems within the dynamics of the home. I’ve been going to see a shrink to help me in dealing with him. Basically, I have to ignore my stepson, otherwise we argue. He makes me feel how my ex husband did. Like bashing my face through a wall. It’s awful. And from what I hear…she is the same way with him. She finds him difficult as well.

I just laugh at her. Because she is so pathetic and can’t be taken very seriously. But still…it’s always shocking when I wake up to this type of text. And yes, it’s happened before. But notice how she backs down!!

Interesting.

UPDATE: tonight, she called in sick. Wednesdays are her “regular” nights to take her kids to dinner. And after all that texting, she couldn’t come! Also, she texted me at around 5 when I was starting dinner. She told me that she regrets “signing that monster peice (yes, that’s how she spelled it) of paper that disrupted the life of my family. and she has hated herself for it since. yet she doesn’t know how to change anything about it.

then…she blew off her kids.

You belittle me because you are feeling small.
You tell me what I’m doing wrong because you are feeling like you are doing nothing right.
You refuse to stick up for OUR son because you are afraid of your Mother not loving you anymore.

I’m done.
I want to be done with you.
But for the kids, I will stay.
For now.

I don’t remember her name. I do remember she was in her teens and my parents trusted her. At least for a little while.

She was very friendly, and she was good with me and my little sister, and my parents felt comfortable having her hang around the house and keep us occupied while they worked on other things. She never took us anywhere outside the yard or house, and there were always other people around.

It didn’t stop her. We played a game, you see, a game about making me feel good. It involved taking off my shorts and my underwear and letting her first massage my buttocks and then turn me over and lick my…You Know. Down There.

And it did feel good. She was never mean about it, she never seemed to force it on me. It was a game. I knew it was a game we could not let anyone else know we were playing. Sometimes she played it with my little sister too, who was only two, but I was the main one.

After a few months, my parents discovered she was stealing small things from our house. I never saw her again.

My best friend in first and second grade and I would play Doctor. I taught her how to take off our underwear and touch and lick Down There, to make each other feel good. That was the panacea for all our hurts in that game. My father caught us once. I lied and said we were just curious, we were just looking. I don’t know if he believed me. I think he wanted to. We were never caught again.

I flirted with similar relationships on and off over the years, mostly playing around with close friends, never quite going as far as I did with my first friend. It always felt dirty and shameful and secret. And I was, in truth, more interested in boys overall. It’s just that they didn’t seem very interested in me.

That was the second part of the damage. Boys would date me, sort of, more because I was foolishly and awkwardly smitten with them than because they really wanted to be with me. After a brief time, they would find someone else more interesting and drop me. My first boyfriend, in junior high, even denied we had ever been together. By my junior year my longest-lasting relationship, a whole two months, ended when my boyfriend told me pick-up games (as in sports) were more important than spending time with me. I was so convinced of my inferiority by this point that I didn’t think to be offended. I was just grateful he was being kind enough to break it off with honesty.

There were never more than a few kisses and hand-holding. There wasn’t much opportunity in my community, and again, I don’t think they were all that interested. Looking back, I think I probably would have slept with them if they’d pushed it, if there had been the opportunity.

I lost my virginity to the boy I started dating my freshman year of college, one month after we started dating. He actually treated me well, at least to begin with. But sex still felt secret and dirty and shameful. Our relationship became mostly about sex. I was more than capable of orgasms, but started faking them to make it go faster and so that I didn’t have to tell him what would really work. He became the center of my world. I never really made any friends in college, other than the friends he already had. I never did go have the semester overseas that I always dreamed of having. I never did a lot of things, because I thought it might threaten our relationship.

I couldn’t threaten the relationship that I had already realized, even though I didn’t want to admit it, was damaged and problematical and probably should have ended. But I was already so tied up with him: financially, physically, sexually, emotionally. I kept pushing the thoughts aside, denying the depression, avoiding the issues. Things became…dysfunctional. I could write a book about it, but I won’t. He was never physically abusive, and I doubt anyone would have seen him as emotionally abusive. He was controlling, in subtle ways. There was disapproval of anything that didn’t fit his strict concepts of what was okay to do, to think, to be. There were the little comments here and there: I didn’t have much common sense. I was gaining too much weight. I partied too much on the few occasions we even went to parties. There were always strings attached to gifts: expectations for what I would do with them, how I would thank him.

I remember once when we both got high on pot with some friends and he took me back into his room and we had sex and I started crying in the middle of it and he kept going and afterwards he asked why and I told him that I was so confused that I thought I was being raped.

I knew it was him. And I still felt like I was being raped.

Sex became infrequent. We could go a couple of months without having sex. He complained. I halfheartedly tried, but we were rarely in the mood at the same time, and he never wanted to just make out, just spend time loving each other without having to fuck every time.

We got married, bought a house, had children. We knew exactly when each child was conceived because there were only those times it could have happened. We had sex perhaps three times total during the eighteen months I was pregnant. I had post-partum depression, but we were both in denial. He couldn’t fix it, couldn’t fix me, so he became angry and turned away and shut me out. I remember telling him I thought I needed help and him telling me I was being stupid and only weak people go to therapists. I needed to buck up and deal.

He had a need for girl friends–you know, female friends, “nothing further.” He had an emotional affair with a coworker two years ago. He told me each agonizing detail, because I was his confidante. I comforted him, stood by him, became best friends with the girl. I started a physical and emotional affair with a married coworker around the same time. I told my husband nothing, lied about who I was meeting on weekend nights, hid the evidence.

The man I had the affair with built up my confidence at first. He listened to me, comforted me, stroked my ego while he stroked my body. He was enthusiastic and long-lived in bed, if not particularly excellent at satisfying me. And he wanted to share me. I said that might be fun. So he did. Another married friend of his met us at the motel where we would go. They both fucked me for three hours, and they said I was amazing, beautiful, such a hot fuck.

I left feeling a bizarre mixture of pleased and proud and deeply shamed and empty. Empty most of all. It was like with every touch, every thrust, every stroke, they had stolen a part of me.

Shortly after that I allowed a stranger to pick me up at the bar where we had our staff Christmas party, and we went to a motel and I let him fuck me. He tried to trick me into letting him fuck me without a condom, but I caught on in time. I still let him do it once he was covered. He wasn’t very good. I had to finish myself off. He told me I was a beast, in an admiring tone.

A few weeks later I lied to my husband about going to a friend’s rescue and went to another (single) coworker’s house, and I had my second one night stand. At least he was better at it.

I told my lover about it all. He said he wanted to get more of his friends involved, have a real gang bang. He said he wanted to find a woman to bring into things.

I started making excuses for not making it to the motel. Both times a second friend of his arranged to meet up with us, I had sudden “emergencies” with kids that afternoon. I finally broke it of. He sucked me back in with sweet words, twice. Even though we hadn’t had sex in months, I didn’t break things off entirely, finally, until almost ten months after we had started.

I tried to fix things in my marriage. I was willing to do almost anything. He didn’t know the truth, though his gut suspected. I had gotten better at sex, and we were having more of it. He suggested we look into swinging. I said I’d be interested. He took me to a strip club and we spent $200 on a stripper who was willing to get into a serious threesome session back in the filthy little stalls. We did everything you could do with underwear still on. It felt good at the time, and my husband was very excited by it all, and I felt emptier than ever. It was confirmation: I wasn’t enough. I would never be enough.

I finally told my husband the truth. Things fell apart. He was filled with rage. He had been honest about his emotional affair, which now he wouldn’t even admit was an affair. How could I have lied? How could I have betrayed him? How could I have stopped being his little virginal whore? Within a month I hated myself so much that I tried to commit suicide and ended up in the psych ward. He hated me for that, couldn’t understand how I could leave my children. I told him the truth: I was convinced that all I did was cause people pain, that they would all be better off without me, that they could just mourn my death and move on.

It was in the hospital that I began the long, slow process towards truth and healing. I stopped lying to myself, stopped lying to other people. I discovered people did and could love me for who I really am. I discovered I could stop running.

He couldn’t handle it. He said he didn’t know who I was any more. It was a final betrayal.

Ten months later, we’re finally filing for divorce. I’m finally healing. I’m finally facing the truth: most of what I’ve believed about myself were lies that people told me.

I’m dating someone new now. I don’t know if we’ll make it in the long run, since there’s plenty working against us, but I hope we do. When he listens to my pain, he listens with compassion for me and anger for those who have harmed me. He is working on gaining my trust that he will be there for me, that when he promises something he will carry it through, that he truly thinks I’m beautiful inside and out. Slowly, I’m starting to believe him.

This isn’t all my story. You can’t condense more than two decades of shame and pain into one post, however long it is. But it’s a truth that I’ve never told in its entirety before. And I can feel the healing begin.